Lightweight
by The Readers Muse
Summary: "Kid, exactly how high are you?"


**Disclaimer:** I don't own "Live Free or Die Hard" or any of the "Die Hard" universe characters, wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1: **I got pulled back into this fandom after watching "Live free or die hard" again for the first time in years and then realized I'd never gotten around to doing a McClane/Farrell fic. Inspired by the following prompt: "Contrary to what most people think, the clouds are not merely drifting by. They are going somewhere."

**Warnings:**, pre-slash, first time, clueless boys, romance, drama, angst, injury recovery, figuring shit out, friends to lovers.

**Lightweight**

"Contrary to what most people think, the clouds are _not_ drifting by. They are going somewhere," he offered, staring up at the ceiling as the nurse who'd been fussing with his dressings left. Or at least he couldn't see her anymore. Maybe she was still around. Hell if he knew - or cared.

Morphine was amazing.

Obviously his knee was a mess and he'd have to deal with that eventually, but right now that was where he was at.

Morphine. _Amazing._ Period.

A snort came from the bed next to him.

"Kid, exactly how high are you?"

He watched his hand shoot up as far as he could reach. Fist pumping towards the ceiling. Happy to hear McClane's voice as it sounded out husky and strangely reassuring. But mostly like he'd probably been asleep. Though, to be fair, he was happy about just about everything right now.

"Lightweight," McClane muttered. It could have been disgusted or sarcastic, but it came out amused. Maybe even fond.

Okay, maybe not that far, but still.

He glanced down at the horror-movie of metal grates and pins that was currently knitting his knee back together. Blinking when he went cross-eyed trying to keep it in focus.

"This must be what Bonnie and Clyde felt like in the end," he muttered, trying and failing to flick the finger sensor off his index finger.

He heard the hush against the pillow as McClane looked at him. Probably giving him the side-eye.

"High as a kite?"

The man's tone was dubious.

And okay, that was a fair criticism.

Especially considering the other half of what he'd meant to say had never actually made it out of his mouth.

"I mean, more like we are completely fucking _thrashed_, man. Like, they were riddled with bullets. I just mean I can relate, you know? Clyde bit it first, and that was almost me."

There was another hush of rustling, then a grunt, before McClane said anything.

"If we are, you'd be Bonnie, not Clyde. Especially with that leg wound. Besides, I was the one drivin'."

He shook his head, tempted to gloat. And with good reason, Bonnie and Clyde had been an obsession of his for years. All it took was one good youtube hole and it would be hours later and he'd find himself squinting at his screen, trying to connect the dots between J. Edgar Hoover's high-heels and his personal axe to grind when it came to the infamous couple.

"Bonnie and Clyde _both_ got shot in the leg - with the same bullet, actually. Went right through. Besides, you're more of a Buck Barrow anyway. You know- his older brother? The one that got shot in the head and lived for days like the freaking Terminator because they poured hydrogen peroxide right into the hole and-"

"Yeah, yeah. I know. Cop, remember?" McClane interrupted.

Right. _Right.  
_  
But that just left him with the mental image of a much younger John McClane idolizing the likes of Francis Hamer, the cop who'd finally brought them down. Or maybe it was the dynamic duo themselves. There was something about the depression-era antics of sticking it to 'the man' that almost everyone found attractive. Cop or not, McClane probably wasn't any different.

He was about to ask before-

He didn't know he'd fallen asleep until he woke up hours later to dim lights and the low hum of machines. He yawned, turning his head the same moment McClane looked over at him from his pile of pillows.

"Lightweight," the man said again, before going back to his yellowing crossword like an old fucking man.

He just snorted. Maxing out his morphine button and going back to sleep.

All else considered, he figured he'd earned it.

* * *

He'd made many mistakes in his life. The first, obviously, had been the whole fire sale thing. But the second? The second was letting Lucy drag him out with a bunch of her friends to go clubbing.

"For fucks sakes, kid," McClane sighed as he almost fell inside. Eying him reproachfully as he held open the door. Generously tugging him in as he dropped his keys on the front rug and almost did a header over the shoe rack. But McClane saved him from that embarrassment by giving him an entirely new one to overthink about. Nearly squeaking when the man's hand shot out to steady him. Wide palm drifting across the soft of his belly before ducking down to snag them for him. "Couldn't have called ahead?"

His keys hadn't worked in the lock.

Which probably should have been his first clue this wasn't his apartment.

It was _McClane's._

Huh.

Either way, he was pretty happy about it. He had a sneaking suspicion he should have been paying more attention to that fact. But hey, he was wasted.

"It's _her_ fault," he muttered, eagerly tossing her under the bus as Lucy howled a laughed from around the uber driver's shoulder as they drove off.

McClane just grunted, watching the tail lights till they were out of sight. Looking distinctly pissed about his daughter, men and liquor being in the same general picture.

He shouldn't have been. Lucy had personally decked the one asshole who hadn't taken no for an answer. They'd swiftly changed clubs after that. Ignoring the fall-out as the roar of music absorbed the worst of it. She hadn't even thought to use the tazer he knew was in her purse. A fact that was both terrifying and hot on a level he really didn't know how to deal with.

"Mistakes were made," he agreed, too happily buzzed to be self-conscious as he gently ricocheted off the wall and clipped the light switch with his shoulder. "Your daughter isn't human, by the way. No one should be able to drink like that and still manage her relationship with gravity."

He had a moment to enjoy the conflicted look of pride and trepidation that flashed across the man's face before McClane started herding him down the hall.

"Come on, the guest bedroom is like you left it. Don't expect any god damned turn-down service either. I wasn't exactly expecting company."

He collapsed face first into the rumpled sheets. Muffling his thanks. Utterly and completely relaxed as he breathed in the slightly musty scent - a mix of him and McClane's fabric softener as he awkwardly toed off his socks without moving.

"Lightweight," McClane snorted.

And _okay_, that hit a bit close to home.

He was buzzed, not wasted.

Okay, maybe that was up for debate.

But still-

"Pretty rich coming from a two beers on the recliner - falling asleep before the news is over - kind of man," he slurred into the pillow.

The balled up blanket that hit the small of his back was McClane's only reply. But even then, it was more appreciated than anything as he rolled over and drifted off to sleep.

* * *

The next morning he woke up to the smell of coffee, bacon and perhaps the worst hangover of his entire fucking_ life_. A pretty solid reminder of why he didn't do this shit in the first place. And why next time he wouldn't be a complete push-over when it came to Lucy and her danger eyes.

He dragged himself to the table in time for McClane to plunk a mug of coffee and three Advils in front of him with easy resolve and thankfully nothing in the way of words.

He liked that.

_Kind of a lot._

Specifically right now, but also just in general.

He finished his plate slowly, before refilling his mug and slouching into the living room. Taking up the entire length of the couch and tugging down every throw-blanket he could reach as McClane puttered around. Busy, but not loud enough that he figured he was doing it on purpose.

It was soothing, really.

His new apartment was almost too sound-proof. He hadn't understood how comforting ambient noise was until he realized the contractors of his new building - courtesy of his insurance pay-out - had actually given a damn about reducing the noise from the street below.

Or maybe he'd just gotten used to McClane's place over the past year.

Maybe.

* * *

He didn't feel halfway human until after lunch. And even then, he stayed put, zoning out to bad reality tv repeats. It wasn't until McClane folded himself into his usual recliner with a groan - eying him in his blanket pile with clear amusement - that he stirred.

"Lightweight," McClane repeated, recliner clunking in a familiar sort of way as he leaned back.

He wrinkled his nose, only to nearly choke when he realized how it'd come out. How McClane was grinning at him with his _eyes_. So fucking fond it might as well have been a bombshell.

Because really- _oh_.

* * *

It took him a while to 'dig deep and find his balls', as Lucy would have put it. Something which was made even more complicated when he realized _he'd_ have to make the first move.

If he wanted to see if his hunch was right, it was up to him. Which was its own brand of agonizing terror, really. Because the more he thought about it, the more he realized how deep he was into it. _How much he wanted it._ How much he wanted McClane, _John_, for his own. Everything had changed after the fire sale and without him knowing it, McClane had become the center of everything. No matter how far he moved away, he always orbited back. And McClane was always there when he did.

Still, it didn't mean he felt the same way.

He'd been married and had kids for fucks sakes.

But there was something there.

Something _possible_.

There had to be.

In the end, whether he was determined, desperate, dumb or a combination of all three, he decided to shoot his shot anyway. Waiting until it was months later and they were alone. When everything was warm and summer-hazy good. Watching tv and sipping weak beer, barely inches apart on McClane's out of date sofa.

Turns out, all that second guessing had been absolutely worth it to enjoy the aftermath. Especially after he sighed, put down his beer and kissed him. Leaning back just time to catch the stunned expression and low-slung lids. Looking punch-drunk as the man's lips parted, croaking out a confused, but undeniable needy sound.

And for some reason, he knew exactly what to say.

"Lightweight," he whispered, before pressing a smile into McClane's lips. Knowing full well that when the man finally got him back for it, like with the blanket, he'd probably just end up enjoying it anyway.

* * *

And he _absolutely_ did.

Eventually.

* * *

**A/N:** Thank you for reading, please let me know what you think. – This story is now complete.


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